Are You Nervous?
by WitchGirl
Summary: There was no way I could get rid of him. Of Greg… Of sweet, goofy, happy-go-lucky Greg Sanders, who just randomly decided to appear on my doorstep at five in the morning, drunk as a pirate, and blabbering on about penguins. N/G The Love!
1. Are You Nervous

Are You Nervous?

**Summary:** When Greg shows up intoxicated on Nick's doorstep, the Texan takes him in, completely unaware of what's in store for him.

_**Author's Note:**_ I know I've been AWOL on "Icarus Drowning" and please know that I fully intend on updating-- soon. But last week I was really sick, and I couldn't write or get the recent chapter to my beta. But now, I have the chapter, I just need to go through it and it will be posted. In the meantime, read this. It has NOT been betaed, but I figured you deserved something now to tide you over until I post the other chapter. So here.

* * *

The clock blinking on my end table told me that it was 4:53AM when an incessant banging woke me up. For a moment, I thought it was a headache pounding inside of my skull, but then I realized that it came in bursts, and it was outside of myself. I rolled out of the bed, clad only in a pair of gray sweatpants and sighed, rubbing the sleep from my eyes as I dragged my feet across the hardwood floors. I finally made it to the door, which was moving in its frame.

He was drunk. He could barely stand. But he was laughing so hard that it reminded me that nothing was ever as bad as it seemed. Somehow, though, just the sight of him seemed to always remind me of that.

"I shouldn't be here," were the first words he said, but he was jsmirking like a kid who knew he had been caught with his hand in the cookie jar and just didn't care.

I cocked an eyebrow, curiosity rousing my senses. "So why are you here, Greg?"

He sniffed and raised his finger as if to answer my question before he stumbled backwards. I stepped forward instinctively, but he regained his balance and held up a hand.

"Don't need yer help," he slurred. He opened his eyes wide then blinked repeatedly.

"How much have you had to drink?" I asked quietly.

"See, s'not the point," Greg said matter-of-factly, as if we had been in the middle of some other conversation and I had said something he disagreed with. "What I'm sayin' is… what I mean is… Can I come in?"

I smiled, wearily and nodded, reaching out to take his arm and help him into the house. Contrary to his actions before, he didn't pull away from my touch. I guided him to my living room couch where he gratefully plopped down into. He looked at me with a toothy grin and wagged his finger at me.

"You…" he said approvingly. "Aw, you…"

I closed my eyes and rolled them behind my lids as I tried to walk past him to the kitchen to get him some coffee or something, but he seized my wrist rather tightly and pulled, making me fall forward, grabbing the back of the couch for balance. I looked at him incredulously, but he simply gave me that toothy grin.

"Wanted to talk to you. That cool?"

"Um… yeah, that's cool," I said slowly, lowering myself to sit next to him. "What's up, G?"

He giggled. "You say funny things."

"I do?"

"Like my name. You say funny things like my name."

I gave a curt, amused grunt. "What are you doing here, Greg?"

He blinked again and rubbed his eyes. "You know… you know, you know, it's so _funny_!"

"Your name?" I muttered, praying for patience.

"Nonononononono," Greg said rapidly, shaking his head sloppily. "No, _things_ are funny. Sichyooations are funny. Ya know?"

"Situations?" I echoed. "Greg, what's going on?"

He put his hands in front of himself and made a conscious effort to remain serious. He began to gesticulate, moving his hands to make certain points. "See, I had this whole… plan, right? Like, this idea… and it all made sense, and it was perfect, and like I had an excuse and a way out and—if things went bad, I mean, I had a way out, and I had… this idea… Like, this _plan_, right, ya know? And then I come here… And I knock on… knock on yer door…" He paused. He seemed to have lost his train of thought. He looked up, his mouth half open as his soft brown eyes peered into mine, and I had no idea what he was seeing. And then, he smiled again. "And then I knock on yer door, and you're there, and it's like… It's my _chance_, ya know? But even with, like… you standing there… I couldn't… I mean, I couldn't think…" He shook his head and closed his open mouth. "You know, that's not even the point. The point is… the point is, the point _is_…"

"What is the point, Greg?" I asked quietly.

He frowned, trying to figure things out, like a child trying to solve a difficult math problem. His brow furrowed and his nose wrinkled up, and I couldn't keep my lips from twitching. "The point _is_ that I… The point is the penguins."

I cocked an eyebrow. I honestly had no idea what he was trying to tell me. "Penguins?"

"Yeah, penguins," Greg said, nodding vigorously and triumphantly. "Yeah, see, um, you know, penguins, in the, um, North Pole, right, with the elves and the reindeer and Alaska and—Well, you know, the penguins."

"Yes, I know the penguins," I said. "Greg, seriously, how much have you had to drink?"

"Not enough," said Greg with an almost ironic laugh. "Not _nearly_ enough."

I frowned and tilted my head, trying to figure him out but Greg Sanders was, as ever, an enigma.

"Anyways, the penguins," said Greg, getting back on track. "So you have these penguins, in the arctic, and stuff, and they're sitting there, and then one day, these penguins, or—or this one special penguin, you know, he's a penguin—"

"I get the penguin thing," I said.

Greg sighed with relief and smiled. "Oh you do! Good… Good." He was quiet as he simply chewed on his lip and stared at me. "Well?"

"Well what?" I asked.

"About the penguins! Well?"

I shook my head. "No, I mean, I get that there's a penguin, but I don't understand what you're trying to tell me!"

"I was talkin' to Sara…" Greg began slowly.

"About penguins?"

"About penguins," Greg said, nodding. "And you know, there's this penguin, and he's just sittin' there in the North Pole all lonely, and he's got his other penguin friends, ya know, right? But he's pretty lonely anyway, and then one day, there's like… This _other_ penguin, right, and this other penguin is all cool and smart and… stuff, and so like the first penguin is all, _wow_, I wanna be like… Ya know, that dude, on the egg, he's awesome."

"This other penguin has an egg…" I muttered, skeptically.

"_Yes_ he has an egg!" Greg cried, as if it were obvious. "All the penguins sit on eggs and do nothin' till the lady penguins come home. Didn't you see that Morgan Freeman flick where he plays a penguin in a marching band, or… something… And maybe Jack Black was in it, I don't remember, the point is, the point _is_… There are these two penguins."

"And they both have eggs?" I asked.

"Yes," said Greg decisively. "I mean, no. I mean… The eggs don't matter, alright, there are these penguins and they're chillin' and they… I mean, the first penguin is all… You know, they pick mates for life, you know that? Penguins do, I mean? They have their other penguin and they stay with that penguin for… you know… penguin eternity. Which is… like… longer than human eternity because penguins are… I dunno, the point is… There are these two penguins…"

"Greg!" I finally cried out, my patience wearing thin. "Why are you drunk? What are you trying to tell me?"

"I'm drunk because I didn't know how else to tell you 'bout the penguins!" Greg exclaimed. "Figured if you didn't like… what I said about the penguins I could just be all, 'Well I'm drunk and I don't know what I'm sayin' or nothing so… fergetit.'"

"Greg, I don't think you _do_ know what you're saying," I said.

And then, suddenly, his hand was on my knee, squeezing it tightly, almost desperately. "Would you just listen to me for once, Nick? Please?"

I said nothing as I stared at the hand on my knee, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end as I heard the blood rush in my ears. I couldn't take my eyes away from that hand, and he didn't move it. He didn't even twitch.

"In… high school…" he began, quietly. "Did you ever… play that game?"

I blinked a few times before I was able to pull myself out of my trance. I looked up at him to find him staring at me again, his curls framed by a halo of moonlight that was streaming in through the window. It was the only light in the room.

"What game?"

He smirked and his hand crept up my thigh like a spider sending chills across the surface of my skin. "Are you nervous?"

"No," I lied.

"No, it's the game," said Greg. He blushed slightly. "You know, with the… I mean…" He couldn't finish, but that impish smile remained in place.

"How do you play?" I whispered, not trusting my voice. Anticipation blossomed inside my chest and unfurled its tendrils into my bloodstream.

Greg's hand moved further up my thigh. "Are you nervous?"

I glanced down. It was in the middle of my thigh now. Any closer and this could definitely end badly. Every fiber of my body was vibrating like crazy, my thoughts dancing around in circles as I inwardly panicked, wondering what Greg's deal was with penguins, and why he had suddenly decided to play some teenage game in the dark. My heart wanted to leap out of my chest and my head was screaming at me to tell him to stop, to tell him that this wasn't funny, that I was scared, _beyond _scared, and that I was so confused that I didn't know whether to push him away or… or… or…

"No."

It was a simple, one syllable word, and it came out so calmly I was astounded at myself. I had no idea where I had found my voice again, or why it sounded so low when I spoke, but I couldn't tear my gaze away from Greg, whose smile was slowly fading as his hand crawled up to the top of my thigh.

He swallowed. "Are you nervous?"

I thought I would have a panic attack right there in my own living room, but instead, I felt my body respond, my hand reaching up, cupping his cheek, tilting my head down to deepen our gaze. "No."

His hand didn't move, his smile completely gone and he resembled a stunned deer, paralyzed in my headlights. In the silence that followed, I could hear his heavy, shaking breath. All of a sudden, I was the one who was drunk. My mind was swimming and I tried to grasp one coherent thought, one answer to tell me what was going on, but everything slipped through my fingers like sand.

My hand was on his cheek. His hand was on my thigh. I couldn't breathe. Suddenly, my mind caught up with my body, and I realized with horror what was going on. I pulled my hand away from him immediately and looked away, my face burning as I moved away from him on the couch. My hands rested on my knees and I clenched them into fists, which gathered my sweatpants in them. What was I _thinking_? What was _he_ thinking? What had just happened? Oh God, I wished he would just leave…

Greg coughed, doubtlessly to dispel the awkwardness that had settled itself like a wall between us. He shifted loudly and sighed. "You see, the problem is… problem is, we aren't penguins, are we? We're people."

I was silent as I stared at my clenched fists, afraid to look up, to see his expression, to see what he was doing, afraid I would want to touch him again, afraid I would do worse than touch him.

"People don't… they don't do the things penguins do. You're not a penguin."

"I'm not a penguin," I muttered, though I wasn't sure what I was saying.

"No, you're not a penguin," Greg said again, this time with a sigh, his voice hanging in the air like humidity.

There was another moment of uncomfortable silence as I hunched my shoulders and tried to fold in on myself like a lawn chair, but I was in my own house, and I couldn't just dump a drunk man on the street because _I_ was feeling insecure. There was nowhere I could run, and there was no way I could get rid of him. Of Greg… Of sweet, goofy, happy-go-lucky Greg Sanders, who just randomly decided to appear on my doorstep at five in the morning, drunk as a pirate, and blabbering on about penguins.

And I still couldn't figure out what he had hoped to achieve.

"What does that even _mean_?!" I suddenly burst out, falling back on the couch and staring at the ceiling. "I'm not a penguin? What? _You're_ not a penguin either, Greg!"

Greg was quiet, which, I knew from experience, was unusual when he was inebriated. I dared to turn to look at him, but he was staring out my window. In the darkness, I couldn't make out his expression.

He couldn't have wanted this. He couldn't have anticipated _this_. Could he have? Was this what he'd wanted? Or was this what he had planned against, why he had his escape plan, what he had wanted to blame on the booze if he had to… Was Greg Sanders at my door at five in the morning to tell me that he…

"Are you… a penguin, Greg?"

He said nothing. He didn't even move. It was reminiscent of watching a statue.

"How drunk are you, Greg?"

"Not drunk enough," he mumbled.

My eyes flickered down to the floor. I moved a little closer to him on the couch. This finally caused him to move and he turned to cast me a curious expression. My heart sounded like a hummingbird's as I licked my very dry lips and placed a hand on his knee. "Are you nervous?"

Gradually, his eyes widened and they glistened in the dull light. He reached out and put his hand over mine. "What about the penguins?"

I couldn't help it. I burst into fits of laughter and all the tension drained away, though my hand remained on his knee. By the time I had sobered up, I opened my eyes to see that Greg was smiling. The laughter slowly dissipated and I shook my head at him. "Would you shut up about the penguins?"

I leaned forward slowly, carefully and he followed. Closing my eyes, my fingers curled on his knee and I felt his hand crawl up my arm. It would probably have been the most intense kiss I had ever experienced, if his forehead didn't collide with mine.

"Ow…" he groaned, his hand against his head.

I chuckled again and put a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him backwards. "You should lie down."

"Why?" he whined, like a little boy who didn't want to go to bed yet.

"You are so uncoordinated when you're drunk," I said. "Just lie down. You'll feel better."

He slowly reclined until his back was flat against my couch. I pulled his legs up underneath me and I was poised over him as he looked up at me.

"Am I… I'm drunk, so is this, like, um, some sort of… I mean, am I passed out on your couch right now and dreamin' or… or somethin'?" His lids fell lightly over his eyes and he yawned, letting out a small, tiny noise that was reminiscent of a kitten. He blinked slowly, looking up at me from beneath half lidded eyes, his lashes soft, inviting.

I reached out and pushed back his hair, soft and curly after a long night. I leaned forward and gently brushed his lips with mine. When I pulled away again, his eyes were fully closed, and he had a contented smile on his face.

"You should get some rest," I whispered. "We can talk about this in the morning."

"Mm…" he intoned happily. "Love you…"

I told myself that he didn't know what he was saying, lightly kissed his forehead, and let him sleep.


	2. About The Penguins

About the Penguins…

**Summary:** Greg wakes up on Nick's couch and can't remember the night before… Sequel to "Are You Nervous?"

_**Author's Note:**_ I just couldn't leave my last one shot where it was. So here is its sequel. Enjoy.

* * *

"What I mean is… you're made for each other," she said, taking a long swig of her beer. "You know. Like penguins."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Penguins?"

"Yeah, penguins," she repeated. "You know, they mate for life."

"So do humans," I pointed out.b

"Mm, only a few of 'em," she mumbled. She raised her eyebrows and nodded at me. "You two, you could be like penguins."

I scoffed. "Yeah. In another reality."

"Max!" Sara called. "Greg needs some tequila."

The bartender nodded. "I'm on it."

"I don't want tequila," I complained.

"Come on, you're going to need some liquid courage," she said.

I tensed. I could tell what was coming. "For what?"

She cracked that classic sly Sara Sidle smile. "I'm going to take you to Nick's tonight."

I rolled my eyes. "No, you're not."

"Yes, I am," she insisted.

"You've had too much to drink."

"So we'll share a cab."

"No, I mean, you can't be thinking clearly. I'm not going over to Nick's tonight."

"Come on," she cajoled. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"I'll tell you the worst that could happen," I said. "I could get my ass kicked, _that's_ the worst that could happen."

"By Nick?" She sounded doubtful. "He's a teddy bear."

"With a temper!" I insisted. "You push the wrong buttons—"

"Greg, it's impossible for you to push the wrong buttons," Sara replied. "He _loves_ you…" Her smile faded as she saw me look up at her. "I mean… you know. The point is, Nick would never hurt you."

"OK," I conceded. "So then, I'll just humiliate the both of us."

"Blame it on the booze!" Sara cried, a little loud in her tipsy state. "Isn't that the easy way out? And, if you're lucky, in the morning you won't remember it, and Nick will _pretend_ nothing happened, and nothing will change."

I shook my head. "I don't believe you."

Max slid a shot of tequila my way as Sara watched me expectantly.

"Either you do this, Greg, or this is the last time I sit here and listen to you whine about it."

"Oh come _on_!" I exclaimed. "That's not fair! How many times have we ended up here with you going on about how Grissom would _never_—"

"That's exactly what I'm saying!" Sara interrupted. "I said never! And I was wrong. And here we are, our roles reversed, and I'm just trying to do for you what you did for me."

"I did nothing for you," I mumbled with a half shrug as my eyes fell on the tequila shot.

She put her hand on mine, and I looked up. She was leaning in close to the bar, her hair lightly brushing the surface of it as she looked up at me. "You told me never to give up."

"At the time, I was trying to get into your pants," I said, taking my hand away from hers.

She giggled. "No, you weren't," she said. "You pretend you're that guy. The best friend, wait-til-she's-vulnerable-then-make-your-move guy. But you're not. You're better than that. You meant it."

I said nothing. I gripped the shot glass in one hand and drummed the bar with my other. The tequila shimmered, golden in the bar light. I heard her shift on the stool beside me.

"I've crossed some line here, haven't I?" she asked, after a moment.

"You and Grissom, that was different," I muttered, my throat closing up as my grip on the glass tightened. "You and… you and _me_, was… different. With you, it was always safe, because I knew it would never happen. That _you_ knew… and it became almost… funny. We laughed about it. Bonded, even." I looked up at her and smiled sadly. "And I got over you."

"What makes this different?" she asked.

I managed a half shrug. "I don't know. I mean, I'm doing it again, aren't I? Wrapping myself up in someone I can never have… There's a strange security in it. But this time, I'm tired of reaching for things out of my reach. I actually… really _want_ him now. And I want him to want me back." I looked up at her again, almost worried. "Is that bad?"

She was wearing that very annoying expression, magnified by the alcohol, the face she wore when she saw puppies or watched old movies. It almost made me gag. I immediately downed the shot and slammed it on the table.

Sara laughed. "No, Greg," she assured me. "No, it's good."

"But he could never…"

"What did we just say about that word?" Sara asked. "Never? Greg, you will _never_ know, unless you tell him."

I looked up at the bartender. "Max!" I called. "Line me up a few more shots of that tequila."

"Lemon?" Sara offered, pushing the plate near me.

I pushed it away. "No time," I said. "I have to get as shitfaced as I possibly can without losing my cool."

"That's the spirit!" Sara cried, toasting me with her beer. "Do it for the penguins!"

* * *

_Penguins…_ For some reason that thought reverberated in my suddenly very heavy, throbbing head. Bright red invaded my vision and I groaned, turning around and burying my face in the back of the… couch?

What was I doing on a couch?

I was in too much pain to care and instead seized the nearest pillow and pulled it over my head. I must have really lost myself the night before. I hadn't been this hung over in a very long time. I let out another sigh as I tried to dig a hole in the couch which I could crawl into and die. My stomach gurgled and I tried to ignore it. I did not taste any stale stomach acids or bits of regurgitated food, which meant I had probably kept all my alcohol down the night before, although it definitely didn't feel like it if you asked my brain.

And then, my hypersensitive ears picked up movement from beyond my final resting place. I stiffened, listening, wondering who was in my apartment and willing them to go away. I grunted my distaste at their presence and heard a laugh.

A deep laugh.

A familiar laugh.

My brain tried to connect the information it was being fed, but it was far too sluggish to come to any conclusions. Instead, I squirmed deeper between the corner of the back of the couch and the cushions and willed this person to go away. I knew something wasn't right if there was another person in my apartment, but at the time, I was too hung over to care.

"That's what you get," a loud voice boomed inside my skull, "for drinking yourself silly. You want some dinner?"

After a few minutes, my mind finally placed the voice and my muscles tensed. I groaned again, this time because I knew I had been caught, and it was all Sara's fault. I rolled over with my eyes still closed, and then slowly lifted the lids to see a blurry figure standing by the couch with his hands on his waist.

"Tell me I didn't make an ass of myself," I pleaded. My voice was scratchy and tired.

He just laughed again. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, G."

I closed my eyes again. "Aw, _man_…"

Someone was holding my hand. I frowned, my eyes fluttering open. Nick was no longer standing, but kneeling beside the couch. A couch, I realized now, which belonged to him, not me. I was at Nick's place, not my own. _Oh _God_, what did I _say_ last night?_ I thought to myself dismally.

"Come to the kitchen with me," Nick whispered with a strange smirk I couldn't place. "I made you a banana milkshake."

I pouted and clenched my teeth in child-like stubbornness. "Do I have to move?" I asked.

He chortled quietly. "No… no, I guess you don't," he said with a sweet smile. I badly wanted to reach out and run my finger across those gently curved lips. But I restrained myself. He was probably trying to pretend that I _didn't_ humiliate the both of us last night. Although fragments of a dream floated back to me in which Nick had been quite receptive to my poetic wooing technique of falling all over my words. Of course, it could have only been in my dreams. Nick is far too smart to fall for someone as suave as me in reality.

And yet, the man reached out and stroked my hair, like a sick beloved puppy dog he liked to scratch behind the ears. Nick was a fairly open guy, but he wasn't generally so affectionate, at least not like this, not soft, or tender… Our contact generally consisted of him hitting me in the arm or pulling me into some big manly guy hug.

This… this was different.

"I'll be right back," Nick said, as if it were a promise he wouldn't dream of breaking.

In my haggard state, I was still confused at his behavior. I allowed my brow to furrow as he rose to his feet and released my hand, making a quick exit to the kitchen. My brain was still throbbing, sore at me for the way I treated it the night before. And the queasy feeling in my stomach definitely wasn't helping. I sighed as I closed my eyes and tried to recall how I had ended up here the night before. Flashes of a taxi, and Sara muttering encouraging phrases drifted into my consciousness. Banging his door as the car drove off to take her home, and then…

I chewed on my lip and decided not to think about it as my stomach lurched. I closed my eyes just as I heard Nick reenter from the kitchen, holding a milkshake in his hand.

"Come on, sit up," he urged, and I begrudgingly did so, still leaning heavily on the arm of the couch as I took the proffered drink and held it to my lips. The glass was frosty, and so was the cool, milky liquid it held, which slid down my throat and plopped into my stomach, neutralizing the acids.

I looked at him from over the brim questioningly. He was sitting on the coffee table with his elbows on his knees. "What did I say to you last night?" I asked, because as much as I _hoped_ I hadn't spilled my guts, I really had to know if I did.

He favored me with a half-smile. "Finish the milkshake, and we'll talk then."

"I want to talk now," I insisted. "I don't… I didn't mean it," I said quickly, to counteract anything humiliating that may have transpired between us. "I mean, when I get drunk, I get these crazy ideas and things, and they aren't generally _good_ ideas, if you know what I mean, so if I, um, I don't know, maybe, _implied_ something, then, uh, I didn't mean it."

His smile faded a little. "Just drink the milkshake, Greg."

His tone was demanding, but quiet, and so I obliged, if that was what he really wanted. I would do anything for him, after all. Or so I'd like to think. Regardless, I watched him intently, trying to read his features and figure out exactly how much of my soul I had bared to him. Was I completely naked or did I still have a towel to hide behind? Details like these were important. Details like these meant the difference between saving a friendship, and losing it completely.

But he betrayed nothing, which was unusual for Nick. He was often very easy to read, but this time his eyes were solid as they stared at me. They didn't waver, and neither did his lips, which had lost the smile he had been wearing when I'd first woken up.

I quickly finished the milkshake, which soothed my churning stomach, and handed Nick the glass. He gripped it between his hands and continued to look at me.

"What is it you didn't mean, Greg?" he asked, trying to sound casual, but there was a hint of distress below the surface that I couldn't understand.

I gave him a half shrug, in the interest of appearing casual myself. "I don't know. Everything, I guess. Whatever I said. I'm kind of whimsical when I get like that. I say stupid things that come to mind, make spontaneous choices…"

"Well, do you remember what you said?" Nick pressed, cocking his eyebrow.

My cheeks flushed and I looked away. "Um, no, not exactly…"

"Then how can you know if you meant it or not?" Nick asked.

I looked up at him out of the tops of my eyes, my mouth half open as I tried to think of a response. "What… _did_ I say last night, Nick? If it's not, you know, too… embarrassing for you to…" I trailed off, afraid that I would lose what dignity I still had left.

The smile returned to his features and it helped me relax. "You were talking about penguins."

I suppose that shouldn't have been surprising. I had woken up with birds on the brain, and Sara had said something about penguins at the bar the night before. "What about penguins?"

"See, that's what I kept trying to figure out," said Nick, his smile growing. "You mentioned that they mate for life, that male penguins sit on the eggs, and that Morgan Freeman starred in a movie about a penguin marching band."

I winced. "I said that?"

He nodded. "Yes, you did."

Though my face was already burning, I asked for more. "What else did I say?" I asked.

Nick sighed and pursed his lips, a tinge of fear in his brown eyes. "Well… then, you…" His hand moved away from the glass and towards me. "… reached out your hand…" I was surprised, and followed the hand as it rest on my knee. "… and asked me if I was nervous."

My mouth went dry. I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. I couldn't even speak. I was too horrified of what happened after that, of what I had done next.

"Are you nervous, Greg?" Nick asked, his voice low, quiet, almost teasing. But why would Nick Stokes be teasing me like this?

I glanced down at the hand on my knee, and then looked up. I closed my mouth and licked my lips to moisten them. "Uh…"

He placed the empty glass on the coffee table and moved onto his knees, the hand never leaving my knee. In fact, he only worsened matters by placing his other hand on my other knee. It was such a submissive position for Nick, so odd, that my mind was reeling, the headache muted by the panic that was ringing like fire alarm bells.

And yet, I couldn't tell him to stop. I couldn't let him take his hands away because the truth was I badly needed them there. I needed _him_ there. And I owed it to him to let him finish his story.

His hands glided up my thighs. "Are you nervous, Greg?"

"Incredibly," I admitted finally as a bullet trickled down my temple.

He looked slightly embarrassed, and began to draw his hands away and before I knew it, my own hands were clapping down on top of his, clamping them in place right above my knees. I made him look up.

"That doesn't mean I want you to stop," I said, surprised at the words tumbling out of my mouth now.

He smiled with relief. "I thought, maybe since it's morning, and you're sober, you might have had second thoughts," he explained. "You might have… not meant it."

He wanted this. He wanted this as badly as I wanted this. He was kneeling at my feet, practically begging, and all I could do was stand there and stare.

"There has to be something wrong with me," I muttered to myself, aghast.

He misunderstood, his smile growing again as his hands rubbed the tops of my thighs. "No, Greg. There's nothing wrong with you."

He moved his hands back down my thighs, to my knees, and moved them apart, crawling closer to me on his knees, and I felt my heartbeat quicken. His hands moved up to my hips and then over my chest to my shoulders. Instinctively, I curled my back and leaned forward, hunching my shoulders upwards as I cradled his face in my hand, closed my eyes, and—

"Ow!" we both cried.

Stupid me, in my haste to taste him, hadn't choreographed our instinctual dance well enough. I had collided with his forehead.

But Nick was laughing. "You're even uncoordinated when you're sober," he said, his hands moving around my neck and tickling the hairs there.

I leaned my forehead against his. "Shut up."

A hand of his trailed up the side of my face, charting the landscape there, his fingertips running over my cheekbones, my lips, a thumb running over my eyebrow… I wasn't sure what he was doing, and then he spoke again.

"I never thought that I would ever be here, like this, with you…" he whispered, barely audible, his eyes glassy with awe. "Or that there would be nowhere else I'd rather be."

A warmth spread through me then, and I knew that I needed to kiss him. Poor coordination aside, I made a dive for it and this time, quite possibly by pure luck, or maybe magnetism, my lips connected with his, my fingers climbed up into his hair, and he rose up on his knees to meet me, his arms draped over my shoulders, his fingers playing with the hair on the back of my neck. I needed him, deeply, fully, forever, and I would taste that first kiss for the rest of my life. Sweet and warm and safe, with a hint of bananas and honey and day-old coffee. I would never let that taste out of my memory, or the way he smelled on that cool afternoon, and I would learn later it was that tangy, salty scent he has right after he wakes up and right before he takes a shower. I would smell it every morning when he would nuzzle my neck before he went to prepare for the day, and it would always remind me of this singular moment in Nick's living room, where he knew me for everything I was, where he had seen me naked for the first time, and he hadn't run away.

And he would never run away.

Eventually, the kiss ended, as kisses need to do, but I knew then that there would be plenty of opportunities for so many more to come, and the promise of Nick, the promise of his lips against mind, was the best hangover cure I could have hoped for.

* * *


End file.
